looks at her.

"Of course _you_ object to it," says she.

"I!" says Marian. "Why should I object to it? I talk of marriage
only in the abstract."

"I am glad of that!" Lady Rylton's eyes are still fixed on hers.
"This will be a veritable marriage, I assure you; I have set my mind
on it. It is terrible to contemplate, but one must give way
sometimes; yet the thought of throwing that girl into the arms of
darling Maurice----"

She breaks off, evidently overcome, yet behind the cobweb she
presses to her cheeks she has an eye on Marian.

"I don't think Maurice's arms could hold her," says Mrs. Bethune,
with a low laugh. It is a strange laugh. Lady Rylton's glance grows
keener. "Such a mere doll of a thing. A mite!" She laughs again, but
this time (having caught Lady Rylton's concentrated gaze) in a very
ordinary manner--the passion, the anger has died out of it.

"Yes, she's a mere mite," says Lady Rylton. "She is positively
trivial! She is in effect a perfect idiot in some ways. You know I
have tried to impress her--to show her that she is not altogether
below our level--as she certainly _is_--but she has refused to see
my kindness. She--she's very fatiguing," says Lady Rylton, with a
long-suffering sigh. "But one gets accustomed to grievances. This
girl, just because she is hateful to me, is the one I must take into
my bosom. She is going to give her fortune to Maurice!"